


and the world turned

by Smalls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grieving John, Guilty Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Romantic Tension, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:44:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smalls/pseuds/Smalls
Summary: “Please,” John begged in a broken whisper. “Please come back to me.”Inspired by The Gabe Dixion Band's "And the World Turned"





	and the world turned

**Author's Note:**

> Another angsty Sherlock story, because enough of those don't exist. Please note the tags, although there is no actual suicide, there is a mention of past attempts. If this upsets you in any way, then please don't read.

John sat quietly and watched the cars and people go by. It was remarkable to him. Everyone just went about their days. They went to work, ate meals, travelled from here to there, kissed loved ones, and went to sleep only to start over the next day. Remarkable. He had no idea how they did it. How they were able to function as if the world hadn't been changed forever. As if there wasn't a hole in the universe, a void that could never be filled. As if Sherlock Holmes wasn’t…

No. That was a dangerous thought. Too dangerous to finish. So John resumed his observations. He focused his eyes on a young man, maybe in his twenty’s, walking aimlessly down the street, his gaze determinedly down and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“What about him, Sherlock, hm? What can you tell me about him?”

John’s question was met with silence.

“Oh, come on. I picked an easy one!”

Still no reply.

“Okay, fine. I’ll get you started. Obviously, the kid’s had a rough day. Even from this distance, you can tell he’s tense. Why? Did he get fired? Dumped?”

Nothing.

John clenched his fists. “Come on, you stubborn cock. I know you know. Answer me.”

Nothing.

“Answer me, dammit! Give me one of your brilliant deductions! Amaze me with your mind! Explain to me what is so easy for your eyes to see! JuST ANSWER ME!”

But, there was no reply. 

John pressed his fists in eyes as hard as he could, desperately fighting the tears. It was a beautiful day. The sun was warm, but a gentle breeze kept the worst of the heat away. It made John laugh, bitter and pained.

“You would hate today. Too warm for a proper scarf or coat. You’d be lost.” A tear slipped down his cheek. The breeze ruffled his hair, as though trying to sooth him. He laughed again. “You said that to me once. _I’d be lost with my blogger_ , you said. You were teasing me, of course. You loved to tease me. You didn't mean it though. Not really. I don't think you could have ever been lost, at least not for long. You’re too stubborn and clever to ever be truly lost.” John smiled, fond and broken. 

“Not me though. I am…so lost without you,” he choked out as another tear fell. “God, I hate you so much. You selfish bastard, leaving me here. Making decisions about my life without asking. Although you've always done that, haven't you? About my living arrangements, my job, my dating life. Or near lack of one. You were always in charge, weren't you? And you never even knew. Not really. How much control you had over me. I mean, I killed a man for you. And I quit my job, and stood up dates, and punched the Chief Superintendent, and got arrested. Twice mind you!” John laughed and cried, and didn't know which hurt more.

“God, I really do hate you. You aren't even here and you still demand all my attention.”

The laughter hurt more, he decided. He was prepared for pain; he was a soldier. Pain, grief, anger. They were old friends that John knew how to deal with. How to avoid. But the laughter? That hurt in unfamiliar ways. Because it was a mockery. A cruel shadow of the happiness he had once felt. Of the happiness he would never feel again. 

“I miss you,” he breathed. The tears fell freely. “I miss you so much.” 

He reached under the neckline of his jumper and pulled out a silver heart shaped locket. It had been a joke gift from the Yard a while back. Donovan had teased that every couple needs a heart shaped locket. Sherlock had looked so confused, knowing he was being mocked but unsure how. John had laughed in good humour, and thanked her for the “thoughtful” present. When they had returned to the flat, John explained the joke. 

_“But we aren't a couple,” Sherlock had reminded him in confusion. John had laughed._

_“Well, yeah, we know that. It’s everyone else who seems to have a hard time realising that.”_

_“That’s stupid,” Sherlock decided with a roll of his eyes. “And so is the locket. How could a piece of jewellery be so significant to couples?”_

_“It’s like a wedding ring, but less binding and more meaningful.” Sherlock’s brow had furrowed._

_“How can a locket be more meaningful? Rings are supposed to symbolise a promise of forever, a vow to spend the rest of your life with someone, although most people don't take that seriously. This,” he said, holding up the jewellery in question, “is a necklace shaped like a heart. It can be given to anyone for any number of reasons. How could it be more meaningful?”_

_“Because, it's a different sort of promise. A ring says till death do us part, but a locket says until my mind leaves me.”_

The debate had ended there, and John kept the locket in the drawer beside his bed. Until one day, he started wearing it. Sherlock had never questioned it. The silver resembled his dog tags, so maybe Sherlock hadn't thought the chain around his neck belonged to the locket. Maybe he had assumed John was reliving the "glory days" of his time in the army or going through a midlife crisis and was trying to feel young. Whatever thoughts the detective had, he never voiced them to John.  Which meant he likely had no idea the locket housed a picture of Sherlock. 

John hadn’t taken the picture himself. Greg had. He had offered it to John as a sort of black mail against the detective, and John had taken it eagerly. It was, perhaps, his favourite picture of the madman. Sherlock was leaning against one of the police cars, shock blanket draped crossed his shoulders. He wasn't looking at the camera, but he had a lazy smile on his face as he stared at…something. Whatever it was, it must have really been something to make Sherlock smile like that. He looked..content, a word John didn't often associate with the genius, but fit perfectly none the less. It really was a surprisingly beautiful picture and just looking at the image made his chest ache. He gripped the locket tight in his hand. 

“Please,” John begged in a broken whisper. “Please come back to me.” 

_"Goodbye, John."_

John flinched at the memory. He leaned forward slightly and looked over the edge. “How did you do it?” he asked in wonder. “How did you jump? Was your pride really worth that much to you?” _Was I worth so little?_

_"Goodbye, John."_

John tried to imagine it. He imagined standing up and taking that step. He imagined falling through the air and watching the ground get closer. He imagined hitting the pavement and the pain he would feel before it would all be over. He imagined seeing Sherlock again. That was almost enough to make him try. God, to see Sherlock again. 

“Now, that would be worth a fall,” he whispered. 

It would be so easy. Just one step. He laughed at his wishful thinking. He would never make it that far. As soon as he stood, Mycroft would be there. Or at least one of his underlings would be. Ready to save him. He knew. He had already tried. They were there every time he took a knife to his arm. Every time he swallowed a bottle of Advil. Every time he stared “too longingly” at the oncoming traffic. Even now, as he sat here, on the roof of Bart’s. They were always ready to save him. A part of him hated Mycroft for it. He still blamed the man for Sherlock, his excuses be damned, and now he was preventing John from following. The first time John had screamed at Mycroft.

“ _Why?!” he had demanded, trying to look as threatening as one can look dressed in a hospital gown hooked to an IV. “Why did you stop me?!”_

_Mycroft had looked so calm and unfazed, standing in the hospital room. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe the scene reminded him of a past life, when a younger, cleverer, hotheaded man had demanded the same question while lying in a hospital bed._

_“Why did I save you? Hm, what an interesting question.”_

_“You didn't_ **_save_ ** _me, you bastard! I wanted to die! I_ **_want_ ** _to die! I was going to see him again!”_

_Mycroft had flinched at that, the first time John had seen any emotion from him since that meeting in Mycroft’s office a few months ago. Had it really only been a few months? It felt like years._

_“Dr. Watson…”_

_“Just because you don't care, doesn't mean I don’t!”_

_“Doctor—”_

_“I care! I wanted to see him!”_

_“YOU THINK I DON’T!” John stared in awe at the shaking man in front of him, face red and hands clenching. “YOU THINK I DIDN’T CARE! THAT I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM TOO! BUT YOU CAN’T, JOHN. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?! YOU CAN’T.” He took a deep breath and stared down at the ground, still shaking. “You can’t, John,” he repeated quietly. “I promised him. I promised to keep you safe. I…I can’t…” John looked away, unable to bear the sight of Mycroft’s tears._

They had come to an understanding of sorts. John didn't promise to stop trying, and Mycroft didn't promise to stop interfering. But John didn't try as often, and stopped resisting his “rescues”. In return, Mycroft didn't follow him everywhere, or lecture him as often. It wasn't the best arrangement, but it worked. Not today though. Today, he was certain Mycroft was watching, and while a part of him was curious, wanting to see how Mycroft could possibly save him from this, he knew he couldn't. Mycroft didn't need to watch another person leap of a building. Not today. So John leaned back and turned, so his feet were no longer dangling over the edge. Only then did he stand, and slowly made his way off the roof, down the stairs, and onto the street. He gave a lazy two finger salute to the car he knew Mycroft was lurking in. The headlights flashed once in reply, and John almost smiled. His feet began the familiar trek back to Baker Street. Not home, although he did still reside in the flat. But it wasn't home. Not without Sherlock. John’s fingers found the locket again, and he clutched it tightly the entire way back. 

John unlocked the front door and entered quietly. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson to hear him. He knew, if she was here, she would be crying softly at her kitchen table, a hand covering her mouth to repress her sobs. If he were a better man, he would knock. Pop his head in and see if she was okay. Maybe offer her a hug or a fond memory of Sherlock. Just reassure her that she didn't not suffer alone. But John was not a better man. Not anymore. So he crept past her door, ignoring the muffled tears, and slipped upstairs without a word. 

Everything looked the same. Mycroft had offered to send one of his minions around to retrieve Sherlock’s things. Leave the “unpleasant business” to someone else.

John had punched him.

The bruise only lasted two weeks, but Mycroft knew better than to bring it up again. So the flat remained the same. It didn't matter though. What did his piles of books matter, if he wasn't there to throw them across the room when he disagreed with the text? Who cared about his faded robe, if it wasn't hanging off his lanky body threatening to slip off his shoulder? What use could be found in his worn armchair, if he wasn't perched in it ready to fly off if the right case presented itself? What was the point of his stolen microscope, if he wasn't using it to examine some grotesque experiment, on the kitchen table no less? And why care about a dusty violin, if he wasn't there to play screeching notes to chase his brother away and beautiful music when he thought John was sleeping? What meaning could be found in a small flat, filled with unused relics and haunted memories?

John continued upstairs to his room. Everything looked the same, but John knew better.

He sat on his lumpy bed and stared at the wall, unseeing. Then stood and paced, agitated. Then sat again, clenching his fists. He reached down his jumper and grabbed the locket. The cool metal soothed him. He released a breath, and ran his thumb over the heart’s outline. After another breath, he slipped off the necklace. John held the necklace in his hands, considering the jewellery. It really was a lovely necklace. Simple yet elegant. Considering the gift had been Donovan’s idea, he should have been grateful the locket wasn't hot pink and covered in rhinestones. Although, thinking about Donovan didn't exactly inspire feelings of gratitude. 

_“Oh, I said it.” Donovan had smirked, looking so proud of herself. Standing in their flat like she thought she was some kinda hero._

_“Mmm-hmm?”_

_“First time we met,” she clarified. John had clenched his fists, unbelievingly._

_“Don’t bother.” But she had continued anyways. As if ruining their lives meant nothing to her._

_“‘Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day he’ll cross the line.’” Now, ask yourself: what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?”_

_John strongly believed you didn't punch women, but, in that moment, there was nothing he wanted more. This…this horrible spiteful woman had turned the whole Yard against them. A woman he had began to enjoy. A woman had he started to think of as some kind of friend. A woman who had betrayed them and played right into Moriarty’s hands. The only thing that spared her from his anger had been the poorly words chosen by the Chief Superintendent. The sound of the bone breaking wasn't nearly satisfying enough._

John sighed. He wasn't angry with her anymore. Not _as_ angry. He wasn't _as_ angry with anyone anymore. Not Donovan, or Anderson. Not Greg, or Mycroft. Not even Moriarty or Sherlock. No, his full anger was reserved for a more deserving person. The one who, as far as he could tell, was really at fault. John opened the locket and stared at the image waiting, tracing the picture lovingly. 

He closed his eyes. 

Then hurled the lamp on his bedside table at the wall. 

The crash was loud and violent, but didn't nothing to make him feel better. 

The books were next.  

Then the table itself. 

That one made him feel a little better. But a little hollow too. John could feel the disapproval from the picture.

“Oh what do you care if I’m being over emotional and irrational?!” he demanded of the necklace. “What are you going to do about it, huh? Yell at me?! Call me an idiot?! You can’t do anything, because you're not here! You're dead! YOU’RE DEAD!” 

John took a gasping breath and buried his head in his hands, chest heaving and eyes burning. 

“You’re dead, you bastard. You’re dead and it’s all my fault. I didn't help you. I couldn't save you. I loved you, dammit, and I couldn’t—”

His sobs cut off the rest of his words. He groped blindly for the locket, and grasping it to his heart once he found it. 

“P-please,” he begged through his sobs, “p-please come back. C-come back to me.”

_***_

The door to John’s bedroom opened slowly and quietly. John turned restlessly in his bed, but showed no sign of waking or hearing the intruder. After a moment, the intruder crept closer. He stood a few feet from the doctor’s bed and watched him sleep. John made a small noise in his sleep, and the man froze, torn between reaching out to sooth the sleeping man and moving back to the door. But, John quieted and stilled. The man let out a quiet breath, and stroked the sleeping man’s hair.

“There’s more grey now,” Sherlock whispered. “But it’s still lovely.” John unconsciously pressed into the touch, making the man chuckle. “Not that I ever told you, of course. But you do have lovely hair.” 

He took a look around the room, then eyed the sleeping doctor. His sharp eyes quickly pieced together the story told by the broken furniture, the lack of sleeping clothes, and the tear stains still slightly visible on the man’s cheeks.

“Oh, John,” he breathed. As gently as he could, Sherlock removed John’s shoes and socks, followed by his coat. He paused, before deciding anymore jostling would wake the doctor, and grabbed a blanket, covering the sleeping man. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and turned to leave when a flash of silver caught his eye. He moved closer, and reached for John’s hand. Carefully, the detective pried the silver from his hand. He looked at the item and stifled a laugh of surprise. He looked back at John with a small smile, fond and soft. 

“You still have that stupid locket? How sentimental.” He opened the heart and gasped. 

Sherlock wasn't an idiot. Far from it. He knew John had stared to wear the joke locket, and had assumed, perhaps arrogantly, that if there was a picture inside, it held a picture of him. However, assuming and confirming were two different things, and apparently created two very different emotions. Assuming left a teasing smile on his lips and a gentle tug at his heart. Confirming though…now that was something different all together. It made his smile more gentle, and the tug on his heart feel sharper. It made tears prick at the corners of his eyes and breathing became a little more difficult. He examined the image closely. Ah, yes. He remembered the day that was taken. 

 _It had been a hard case, for more reasons than one. Sure, it had been challenging. Their killer had been particularly clever, and violent, but the hardest part had been watching John. Good, kind hearted John, who’s good and kind heart had grown heavier and heavier with each child they found. The worn look in John’s eyes had spurred him on, driving him harder and further. He_ **_had_ ** _to solve this case, if for no other reason than to chase the darkness for the doctor’s eyes._

_By pure luck and a small miracle, they had found the killer and his latest victim in time. Sherlock had leaned against one of Lestrade’s car, eyes closed in relief. The sound of a high pitched giggle opened his eyes. He quickly sought out the source of the sound and smiled. John had been kneeling beside the small girl. She was dirty, and shaking, and bruised, but she laughed freely as John pulled a coin from the girl’s ear and begged for him to repeat the trick._

_“For Christ’s sake, SHERLOCK!” The detective had jolted and turned towards the voice._

_“Yes, Lestrade? You yelled?” The DI had laughed in exasperation._

_“Yeah, I yelled. I tried calling and waving, but it seemed you were distracted.” Lestrade cast a sly eye at the doctor before giving Sherlock a smug grin. “You know—”_

_“I don't want to hear whatever idiotic thing is about to come out of your mouth,” he snapped. Lestrade held up his hands in surrender._

_“Alright, alright. You win. I expect to see you at the Yard in thirty minutes,” he said walking over to his car. “You and John have paperwork to complete.” The DI climbed in the vehicle, and paused before shooting him a smirk. “And by the way, you’re kind cute when you stare like a love struck idiot.”_

_“Lestrade, I will have you kno—”_

_He drove off before Sherlock could finish defending himself. He glared after the disappearing car before returning his gaze to John. He was doing that coin trick again, likely for the tenth time, but the doctor smiled all the while with shining eyes. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again. Love struck indeed._

Why this picture existed or how John had gotten his hands on it hardly mattered, though he suspected Lestrade was responsible on both accounts. All that really mattered was John had it. That he had put it in the stupid locket, which he still wore from some bizarre reason, and had fallen asleep clutching it tightly. He looked from the image to John’s sleeping face.

“You are hopeless, aren't you?”

There was no heat or insult in his voice, only a fond sadness.

“It might do you better to forget me.” Sherlock ran his fingers gentle along John’s wrists, tracing the scars he couldn't see but knew were there. “There’s no use hurting yourself over me,” he explained with a lump in his throat. “I’m not worth your tears, and I’m certainly not worth your life.” His voice cracked, and he closed his eyes. He had wanted to kill Mycroft when he told Sherlock about the incident. 

_“HE DID WHAT?!” Mycroft had closed his eyes, a displeased expression crossing his face._

_“He’s fine now. He’s in the hospital, and the doctor said—”_

_“THIS IS NOT FINE!” Sherlock snapped. “John took a knife to his wrists, and you're going to stand here and tell me IT’S FINE?!”_

_“No,” Mycroft had corrected, sounding irritated. “I said_ **_he’s_ ** _fine. My people will be keeping a closer eye on him from now on. We won’t make another mistake.”_

_“I’m going to see him,” Sherlock had declared firmly, grabbing his coat prepared to storm out of his brother’s office._

_“No, you aren’t. You and I both now why it is imperative that you—”_

_“Oh damn it all to hell! John tried to_ **_kill_ ** _himself for some idiotic reason, I’m sure. I will not stand here and—”_

_“For you.” Sherlock abruptly stopped, and stared dumbly at his brother._

_“Uh, I, what…” he tried, words and breath not coming._

_“He told me he wanted to see you again.” Mycroft explained with pained tone. “He said he still wants to.” Sherlock sunk back into the chair, unable to understand. Mycroft came to stand beside his brother. “I won’t let him, Sherlock. I promised you that, and I meant it. I won’t let the good doctor die. But you need to finish what you started or else this whole ordeal is for nothing.” Sherlock had nodded weakly, still trying to understand what had happened. “Sherlock?”_

_“Y-yes?”_

_“Do you understand why you can’t see him?”_

_“Y-yes.” His brother, in a moment of uncharacteristic kindness, wrapped his arm around his brother._

_“Good. And I’m so sorry.”_

Sherlock was sure John had tried again. Mycroft had never told him, likely trying to protect him or some other nonsense, but there was something strained in his eyes when Sherlock brought up John which confirmed his theory. He sat down beside the sleeping man and gently cradled his wrists, bringing them to his lips, kissing them and mouthing softly at the horrible scars. 

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed into the skin. “I’m so sorry I’ve caused you so much pain.” John whimpered his sleep, but Sherlock didn't remove his lips. “I swear I’m going to fix this. I’m going to destroy Moriarty’s twisted web, and I’m going to come back to you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life by your side, apologising and trying to make up for all the hurt.” 

He slipped the locket back into John’s hand, and stood. He wanted to stay for another minute, but he knew if he stayed, a minute would because hours and Sherlock would never leave. Instead, he took a long look at the sleeping man, trying to commit his face to memory. The detective knew it would be a long time before he would be able to check on John again. 

“I love you,” he whispered into the darkness, “and I swear I will come back to you.” Then he slipped out of his doctor’s room, as quietly as he had entered, leaving John to his dreams about a beautiful madman with a lazy smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) 
> 
>  
> 
>  If you want to check out more of my work, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://im-running-out-of-words.tumblr.com) or you can find my main blog [here](https://theworldsactuallynotthatsmall.tumblr.com)


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